Star-Crossed Sweethearts / Secret Prince, Instant Daddy!: Star-Crossed Sweethearts / Secret Prince, Instant Daddy!

As she stood on the steps replaying the encounter, the door behind her opened. A young woman stood just inside the entry. She wore a plain cotton dress and her dark hair was parted in the middle and pulled back.

“Miss Jackson, welcome,” she said in heavily accented English. “I am Franca Bruno.”

The name registered as Atlanta stepped inside. This was the owner of the house. “Thank you. I was just admiring the view. My travel agent said it was lovely and he wasn’t mistaken.”

The woman glanced at the bags before poking her head out the door. “Is my husband with you? He was supposed to pick you up from the airport.”

“No. I caught another ride.”

Franca’s dark eyes narrowed and she rattled off something in Italian that didn’t sound particularly nice. “He was late, wasn’t he?”

“Maybe just a little,” Atlanta hedged, not wanting to get in the middle of a domestic dispute. “Unfortunately, circumstances came up that forced me to leave in a rush. I was lucky to run into a friend who also was coming to Monta Correnti.”

That snagged Franca’s attention. “Another American?”

“Yes. Angelo Casali.”

Franca nodded. “Luca’s other son. I had heard that he might come. I am pleased for his father’s sake that it is so. Signor Casali is a kind man…and far more reliable than my husband.”

Franca helped Atlanta pull her bags inside. “Come, let me show you around.”

In addition to the stunning view, the villa boasted three large bedrooms, three bathrooms, formal sitting and dining rooms, and what appeared to be a study. The furnishings were an eclectic mix of charming old-world pieces and modern conveniences such as the flat-screen television that hung over the fireplace in the study and the microwave oven that sat on the counter opposite a brick pizza oven.

Atlanta had everything she needed. Franca had stocked the refrigerator with food and had even gone to the trouble of preparing an antipasto salad in case Atlanta was too jet-lagged to go out later that evening.

“You will find bottled water and local vintage red wine in the pantry. I am happy to prepare any meals you request.”

“Thank you. The antipasto will hold me over for tonight.”

Together they walked back to the door and Atlanta followed the other woman outside.

“I hope you will enjoy your stay.”

“I’ll be hard-pressed not to.” She spread out her hands to encompass the scenery. “It’s truly lovely here.”

“It is a special place,” Franca agreed. “It belonged to my grandparents. My husband and I live just down the hill. I will be by each morning to freshen up the linens and take care of anything else you need.”

After Franca was gone, Atlanta headed upstairs. The only thing she needed right now was a hot shower and a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Unlike Angelo, she’d spent the entire flight wide awake and way too aware of not only the sexy man slumbering next to her, but her physical response to him.

The game is over.

Angelo mulled Atlanta’s parting words on the way to his villa. He wanted to be able to shrug them off…shrug her off. There were plenty of other fish in the sea. He knew that firsthand. So, why did he feel so damned disappointed? Maybe because at times while they’d talked, it hadn’t felt like a game.

It was the painkillers, he decided as the driver turned off the main road and passed through a gated drive. They made his brain fuzzy.

A turn-of-the-last-century villa came into sight. Its view of the surrounding countryside was worth every penny of the rent. His courtyard sported more than the cobblestones and grapevines that graced Atlanta’s. His had a built-in pool and spa.

While the driver took his bags inside, Angelo walked over to inspect the amenities. The pool wasn’t Olympic size, but he wasn’t in any condition to swim laps anyway. The hot tub was more his speed, he thought on a grin. He could picture himself in it, the pulsating jets working the tension out of his muscles as he enjoyed a glass of red wine and watched the sun set. If he had to stay in Monta Correnti, at least he would be comfortable. From what he’d seen so far, his brother had done well in choosing accommodations. He headed back to the house.

Alex hadn’t said anything about meals being included, but when Angelo stepped inside he was greeted by the mouth-watering aroma of garlic, onions and assorted herbs. He inhaled deeply, letting the scents linger in his nose. Snippets of memories came to him before he could stop them, popping like corn kernels held over a flame. He recalled following his father to a nearby riverbed to pick the special basil that Luca said gave his tomato sauce its distinctive flavor. Alex was with them. Angelo swallowed now, remembering how happy the boys had been and how he’d basked in their father’s attention. It was not long after that that Luca sent his sons away.

“No wonder I’ve never been a fan of spaghetti,” he muttered with a shake of his head.

“Actually, I am making ravioli stuffed with porta-bella mushrooms and roasted garlic.” A young woman stood on the opposite side of the room. Given her apron and her words, he assumed the door from which she’d entered must be the kitchen. She was dark-haired and lovely with surprisingly blue eyes. Eyes that were the exact shade of his, a trait he had inherited from his father.

“Isabella,” he guessed, feeling mule-kicked.

So this was the sister he’d never met and had only learned about recently. Yet another reason to resent Luca. But it wasn’t only resentment he felt. Emotions Angelo couldn’t label, much less process, raced through his head. For so long he’d just had Alex. Now he was meeting a sister, and Luca had two other sons who shared the Casali name, as well.

Clearly, Isabella had more practice in handling the surreal. While he stood gaping, she smiled warmly at the mention of her name.

“And you are Angelo.” She crossed to him and rose up on tiptoe to kiss both of his cheeks. It was a standard Italian greeting, he reminded himself when a lump rose in his throat. “Welcome home.”

“This…this is Luca’s home?” He glanced around. Other than the aroma wafting from the kitchen, nothing about the place was remotely familiar.

“No. I meant welcome to Monta Correnti,” Isabella clarified. “An American businessman owns this particular villa. He leases it out when he is not here, which is most of the time. Alessandro said he thought it would suit your needs.”

Angelo nodded. Unsure what else to say, he told her, “Your English is very good.”

“Better than your Italian?” Isabella’s smile told him she already knew the answer to her question.

“It could use some work.”

“So could your brother’s when I met him. But he learned a lot during the time he was here.” Her satisfied expression made Angelo think she was referring to more than the language. “Alessandro is a good man. I was grateful that he came, and I am even more grateful that he was able to convince you to come as well.”

Angelo needed to set the record straight. “I’m not sure the outcome of my visit will be what you’re hoping for, Isabella. Alex and I may look a lot alike, but that doesn’t mean we think the same.”

She took a moment to weigh his words before nodding. “You are here. That is enough for now. We will see about the rest later.” She wiped her hands on her apron, a gesture that spoke of nerves more than necessity. “Come. You must be tired after your long journey. I can show you around.”

“Actually, I’m not all that tired. I slept most of the way.” He hated that he still felt a little groggy from the medication. Despite the returning pain, he was determined to forgo another dose. He had too much to process to be lost in the fog.

“Are you hungry, then?” Isabella asked.

He hadn’t been since leaving the plane. Between the visit to come and Atlanta’s intoxicating company, he’d been way too keyed up to think about food. Now, his empty stomach made its presence known with a loud growl, which she heard.

“I guess I am,” he said sheepishly.

Isabella smiled, clearly pleased. “I was hoping that would be the case. I will set the table while you freshen up. You will find a bathroom down there.” She pointed to a hallway that led from the room. “It’s the first door on the right. You will find a larger one upstairs. Your rooms are on the second floor to the left of the landing.”

Angelo opted for the former. A few minutes later, after splashing a little water on his face and adjusting his wrinkled clothes, he joined Isabella in the kitchen. Even though the villa had a formal dining room appointed with intricately carved mahogany furnishings, she’d set the wooden-plank table in what was a surprisingly plain kitchen. Plain and downright rustic, he thought, glancing around.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “The other room is fancier, but so big and formal. We are family.”

The word was as foreign to him as her accent. “I take it the American businessman who owns this place isn’t much of a chef.”

“No. On the rare occasions when he is here, he takes all of his meals in the village. But you are not to worry,” she said, as if reading Angelo’s mind. “You will find the master suite very comfortable. He has done what you would call extensive updating elsewhere in the house.”

“And outside as well. It was kind of hard to miss the in-ground pool and hot tub.”